On the precipice of season comes change,
And falling boys on the edge of their height.
One is without two is without three.
They plummet to the wind.
Mothers record these days on the edge of confusion.
A triumph of one fallen to greater things.
A topple on the sun of a Spring afternoon.
A sand path to the freedom of water.
You are a kayak on the edge of the sun.
The leader of your craft, the captain of your youth.
The price we pay for freedom,
Is to know the beauty of pride.
This is for the infant whose hands we held above his head.
May you walk this lake alone.
Hold your paddle against the wind.
And touch it to the sun.
He is my man on his way to worship.
He claims his youth among the trees.
The paddle of branches above his head.
The feet of roots below the sand.